


Next Time

by darkavenger



Category: Dark Avengers (Comic), Marvel (Comics), Punisher (Comics)
Genre: Blood and Violence, M/M, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-19 00:22:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3589347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkavenger/pseuds/darkavenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What the hell is he doing here?”</p><p>“I thought you might like a gift, to make up for my stealing his death from you.”</p><p>Both voices are familiar, but Frank’s disoriented enough it takes him a moment to place them. When he does, he tenses. Daken and Bullseye. Shit. Of all the sadistic freaks he doesn’t want to be at the mercy of, these two are towards the top end of the list.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Next Time

Frank comes round to a sick, dizzy pounding in his head. He can feel rope around his wrists and ankles, binding him tightly to a chair. Cloth wound round his eyes and knotted tightly. Fuck. He hates waking up like this. Over the sound of the insistent thud of his blood rushing in his ears, he hears a voice ask:

“What the hell is _he_ doing here?”

“I thought you might like a gift, to make up for my stealing his death from you.”

Both voices are familiar, but he’s disoriented enough it takes him a moment to place them. When he does, he tenses. Daken and Bullseye. Shit. Of all the sadistic freaks he doesn’t want to be at the mercy of, these two are towards the top end of the list.

“Ah, he’s awake,” Daken says, despite the fact that Frank hasn’t said a word. His change in heart rate must have given him away. Enhanced senses. Perfect. There’s the click of shoes against a hard surface as Daken approaches him; that and the faint echo tells Frank that wherever he is, it’s a big space with a concrete floor. He can’t hear any traffic in the background, which tells him it’s isolated. So, big, empty and remote. The perfect place for killing.

A hand rests on his face; skin soft, smelling faintly perfumed like expensive hand lotion. Daken. Frank jerks his head away, baring his teeth.

“I don’t think so,” Daken says, admonishingly, replacing his hand, grip less gentle as he forces Frank’s chin up. “So what do you think, hm? You’ve been quiet, darling.”

“Shut up, bitch.” Bullseye’s voice drips loathing at the petname.

“Tsk, tsk,” Daken sighs, reprovingly, “that’s no way to express your gratitude for a gift that was so hard to obtain.”

Frank chuckles.

“Something you find funny?” Daken says sharply, yanking Frank’s head higher, forcing him to expose his neck more fully.

“You don’t know your boyfriend that well, do you?” Frank says finally, voice rasping. Bullseye makes a noise of disgust at the word boyfriend, further confirming Frank’s suspicions that there’s no true alliance between the two. Good. He can use that. “You really think this is how he likes his kills, giftwrapped? There’s no fun killing an animal trapped in a snare, Daken, that takes no skill.”

Daken’s nails dig in slightly, Frank’s not-so veiled slur hitting home. “Hmm. I see.”

“I don’t need your help,” Bullseye growls, and there’s the scuff of sneakers against concrete. “If I want someone dead, I do it myself.”

“Except you didn’t kill the Punisher, did you?” Daken observes, tone mild. “I did. He may be alive, again, but I can’t be held accountable for the freak joke of a universe that won’t let the dead stay dead. You never killed him. You couldn’t -”

Frank feels the force of the punch Bullseye throws, feels Daken jerk back with the impact.

“I could,” Bullseye says, voice dangerous and low.

“Then do it,” Daken says. His normally crisp enunciation is slurred, like he’s talking with a mouthful of blood. Obviously Bullseye aimed for the face. “Or don’t. But make your mind up, you’re beginning to bore me, Lester.”

Frank hears Bullseye shift closer, feels his warm, rank breath hit his face. Something cold against his neck. He tenses, but doesn’t bother to struggle. If the ropes wouldn’t give five minutes ago, they won’t give now. There are worse ways to die than a quick knife drawn across the neck.

“Sorry bout this, Frankie,” Bullseye says, conversationally, confidentially. “I had big plans for you. For this,” the knife digs in a little, and Frank can feel the warm trickle of blood as it bites in. “Wanted to make it something special, y’know? Professional courtesy, you might say. One killer to another.”

“Get it over with,” Frank says, blood dripping faster as his talking pushes the knife deeper. “Or maybe Daken’s right, maybe you can’t.” He wants Bullseye goaded, wants a clean death, not something slow and lingering and painful.

Still, Bullseye hesitates.

“Lost your appetite, precious?” Daken’s voice comes suddenly, much closer than Frank remembered him being. From the way Bullseye twitches, the knife slipping messily up Frank’s throat, slick with blood, he didn’t hear Daken move either.

“It’s hard to get in the mood with you watching over my shoulder,” Bullseye spits irritably.

“Oh dear,” Daken sounds amused, “having some performance anxiety, are we?”

“Fuck you.”

“Stop flirting and kill me,” Frank interrupts, tired of listening.”Or give me a gun and I’ll put you both down.”

There’s a snarl, and then there’s a knife through his shoulder. There’s a moment of numb surprise that never goes away, no matter how many times he’s gotten stabbed, and then a dull, throbbing pain that follows. Frank breathes through it.

“Stabbing,” he hears Daken say, “how… Freudian.”

Bullseye twists the knife, and that hurts, with a sharp, immediacy that can’t be ignored. Stars explode behind Frank’s eyelids but he swallows down any sound ruthlessly.

“Psychoanalyse that,” Bullseye says viciously.

Daken chuckles darkly. “You’re a sadist.”

Bullseye snorts, “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“And you’re displacing,” Daken says. There’s a rustle of fabric brushing against fabric and a sharp intake of breath.

“Get your hands off me,” Bullseye says, voice low, but there’s no scuffle, no sounds of resistance.

“Oh, darling,” Daken murmurs, “I don’t believe you want that.”

“You don’t know what I want,” Bullseye says.

Daken laughs, “Oh but I do. But since you ask so nicely, I’ll stop touching you. We’ve been neglecting our guest, anyway.”

Frank tenses at that, and at the sound of footsteps approaching him.

“Oh dear,” Daken says, stopping just in front of Frank, “You have made a mess. He’s bled all over his shirt. Now that won’t do, will it?”

Frank’s breath catches as he feels something sharp poke him in the chest. Sharp, but less cold than metal. He feels it rake slowly down his chest, parting the fabric of his cotton shirt. Daken must have already removed his kevlar because there’s nothing underneath to protect his skin, and Daken takes no care not to cut into flesh as well as fabric. More blood wells up from the shallow groove of a cut, and trickles down Frank’s chest.

“You know, I think I’m beginning to see the attraction,” Daken says, voice thoughtful. A hand splayed on Frank’s chest, that same prick of something not-metal. Bone.

“You’re a real sick fuck, you know that?” Bullseye says, but there’s something other than disgust in his voice.

“I am,” Daken agrees levelly, “now, what would you like me to do?” His hand trails down Frank’s chest, halting as it reaches the waistband of Frank’s trousers.

“How about let me go?” Frank says, straining against the ropes again carefully. His wrists are sore, but the ropes definitely feel looser.

“A nice idea, but I wasn’t talking to you,” Daken says, “I was asking Bullseye what he wants.”

“... do whatever you want to him, I don’t care,” Bullseye says, voice husky.

“Fine,” Daken sounds pleased, like that cat that got the cream, and then he’s straddling Frank’s lap, leaning forward to kiss at his throat. Frank jerks away as Daken’s lips move over his neck, as his tongue probes the cut Bullseye had made. Pain prickles over him but Daken’s hand curls round the back of his head, holding him still as Daken laps at the drying blood until it flows freely again. Frank snarls wordlessly, but Daken just laughs, the sound spiteful, and kisses Frank, lips wet with blood. Frank kisses back savagely, biting at Daken’s lips till they part, until Daken’s blood mixes with his own.

Daken’s too caught up in the kiss and the violence to notice Frank push off against the floor. The chair topples, overbalanced by their collective weight and sends them crashing to the ground.

The impact winds Frank and jars the knife still lodged in his shoulder, but he’d prepared for that, unlike Daken. Hands loose, but still tangled, he manages to flip Daken round so the other man is under him, then fastens his hands round Daken’s neck and squeezes.

Over the blood roaring in his ears, Frank hears Bullseye’s laugher. He wishes he wasn’t still blindfolded, so he could see what the man was up to, but for now he just focuses Daken, intent on choking the life out of him.  

It’s surprisingly easy. Daken doesn’t fight back, in fact Frank could swear he’s laughing too, the sound a wet, gargled sound even as his body twitches and spasms in protest under Frank. Finally, he falls still and silent.

There’s a smatter of clapping. It echoes, bouncing off the walls. Frank reaches up to pull the blindfold off.

“Now that’s why I like you,” Bullseye says, as the echoes of the applause fade away. “Shit like that. That’s resourceful.”

“Stop talking.” Frank discards the blindfold, blinking carefully as his eyes adjust to the light, “I’m not interested in your admiration.”

“Right,” Bullseye nods, eyes glittering with anticipation, “You’re right. Enough talk. Talk is for people like Daken, not people like us.”

Grunting, Frank grits his teeth and pulls the knife out of his shoulder. Blood immediately begins to pour from the open wound, but it’s better than being weaponless.

“See?” Bullseye crows, grinning with maniacal enjoyment as he pulls out another knife and widens his stance, “Resourceful.”

Frank lunges for Bullseye, but the sudden movement coupled with the blood loss leave him stumbling. It’s the only thing that saves his life. Bullseye’s blade flies past him, travelling with deadly velocity. There’s no time to flinch, never is. Frank forces himself to recover, and barrages into Bullseye, who's still reaching for another knife. He pins him against the wall with his own body weight, grabbing Bullseye’s left wrist with his free hand and forcing it back, smashing it into the wall, the knife that Bullseye had somehow managed to pull dropping to the floor with a clatter.

Bullseye’s laughing again, breath and bloody spittle hitting Frank’s face and it makes Frank’s blood boil, the sound of that laughter bouncing off the inside of his skull. “I told you,” he says, “to shut up.”

“You know the real reason I never killed you, Frank?” Bullseye asks. Frank doesn’t reply, looking down as he focuses on getting a good grip on his knife. Bullseye continues, undeterred, “It’s because you’re too fun to kill. That’s why I’m going to leave you alive.”

That sends warning bells off in Frank’s head, and he looks up just as Bullseye rears his head back and then slams himself forward, headbutting Frank square in the face.

 

Frank comes round later. His head pounds sickeningly. Adamantium-plated skull to the face will do that to you. It feels like his concussion has a concussion. Still, this time he’s not tied up and blindfolded. And he's alone, Bullseye and Daken long gone. He picks himself off the floor, pausing as he sees the scrap of paper lying beside him.

**Next time! - B**

He picks the paper up and scrunches it into a tight ball then lets it drop. It was a mistake to leave him alive.

 _Next time_ , he promises.


End file.
